Poetry

Sequoia

Published in The Furious Gazelle / June 2014

A controlled burn—also known as back burning—clears everything in its path.When wisely calculated, it can renew all through the brilliant ferocity of fire.

Trees dancing flaming insanity light up the night sky.Everything old on the forest floor becomes fuelfor the carefree wanderlust of red and orange.The night sky screams as billows of smoke set sail;gray-black waves exhaling into the moon’s starlight ocean,clouds jostling to hold their own against the hot-faced intruder.*Though I did not calculate well the burning that brought you to meI did sniff the winds of change and following a wild impulse,drew a ragged breath, lit a match, and threw it down.

What pain, age, and this wild night has not burned from me crackles and is gone.Lying naked and alone, I sleepand dream of you.*A controlled burn—also known as back burning—clears everything in its path.When wisely calculated it can renew all through the brilliant ferocity of fire.

It is said that some seeds, like the seed of the great Sequoia,remain dormant until broken down by fire.

This to tell you that such burning is purposeful.This to tell you that grace exists.

Your Door

Published in The Furious Gazelle / 2014

It is getting on,the night breeze whispers,calling me down to the water’s edge,calling me back through timedown the lane behind your house.

It is getting on. Do not delay,my heart echoes, calling me upfrom dreaming the dead dream of no life,calling me back to peek through your window,your face bathed in gold from the firelight.

It is getting on. I will not wait forever!you told me once in anger when I,in my youthful arrogancerefused your love to run after my fame,my fame which fluttered and failedand I too proud for too long/to come home to you.

It is getting on.You sit so sweet and still,not knowing that I have come once morebringing with me my angst and anger and unresolved ambition.But the cold December winds whispered your nameand like Lawrence’s strange angel, I reach up my hand toknock at your door.It is getting on.Please, let me in.

Fallow

Published in Forge Journal / 2012 under the pen name Brynn Copeland

In days gone byFarmers let their fields lie fallow.A time of rest for the soil,of decay and then, slowlyrenewal.

These days,the soil must produce endlessly.With no time to regenerate, it must be forced,as we are forced in our worldso intent on constant production.

Why follow this mad god whose cracking whipis driving us to the edge of doom?Do your bones not long for a time of rest?Does the whirlwind of your mind not long for a moment’s pause,to hear the wind in the trees, the questions so long unaskedand the raven’s wise reply?

One day I will play music again,and the genesis will be organic,the strains of melody effortless,with rhythm voluptuously floodingand feeding me.

But, today, let it be enough thatin soft green grass,I lay me down.

The Gift

Published in The Furious Gazelle / 2014

The gift camenot as I thought it would,wrapped in pink cellophane, yellow ribbons streaming,a chorus of glory hallelujahs ringing out.

The gift camenot as I hoped it would,clarity streaming in like cold spring water,bottled and guaranteed to provide easy enlightenment.

The gift came insteadwrapped in veils of past shame, of long suffering,tied tight with ribbons of self‑loathing.

The greeting card taped to the front is empty;a blank canvas calling for me to begin anew.I tear at the wrapping, throw it to the floorand what has lain so long unopened/ dares to reveal myinnocent potential,lost so long ago.

The lines on my face tell the story of one who has tried and failed.But the gift tells true.The gift tells true.

Wind in the Sky

First published in The Lorelei Signal / Wolfsinger Press 2009, and subsequently published in Bread ‘n Molasses in 2011

In the chill of November,The beauty of May,Be it city or forest, she finds her way.Hear the dawn’s hush in winter,See the moon in her eyes,Her map the Aurora, or as the crow flies.The cold air blows gentle as she brushes the lieFrom a wilderness crying, its wisdom denied.The great oak remembers the strength of her kindShe listens and follows the wind in the sky.

Her hair streaked with silverFlows thick down her backEach strand tells a story of glory and lack.Of laughter and sorrow,Of love here, then goneA life richly woven, a full-throated song.She sings of the babies she’s caught, that survived.She keens with the night wind for those that have died.And she prays as she runs as the moon rises highShe listens and follows the wind in the sky.

The shadows they fall awayFall away dancing,Her heartbeat says fly away, fly on the owl’s wing.Be one with the pulseOf the wandering deerThe birch tree births memory, her vision comes clear.‘I carry the blood of the old ones’ says she,To the towering forest,the depths of the sea,And a lone star streaks homeward as the whippoorwill cries‘I listen and follow the wind in the sky’

Today you may see herIn the rise of the sunThe halls of the city, a life’s work well done.Let the dark night embrace youAnd you will see her faceIn all creatures, all nations, the whole human race.‘Rejoice sons and daughters like a child in the springAs the mystery deepens the universe singsI am here now within you and as night draws nighJust listen and follow … the wind in the sky.